Fantasy

Remember Who You Are
Remember Who You Are > There comes a moment when you stop looking outside for validation—and start reaching inside for strength. --- In the heart of a vast mountain range, cloaked by morning mist and silence, stood an eagle’s nest on the edge of a towering cliff. In that nest, long ago, was born a majestic eagle named Arion. From the beginning, he was different—bold, sharp-eyed, wings broader than most, and with a spirit that trembled not in fear but in potential. But fate had another idea. When Arion was still young, a storm of unimaginable fury struck the mountain. The winds howled like ancient beasts, tearing trees from the ground. His nest was shattered, and Arion was thrown from the cliffside. He flapped with desperation, but he was too young to fly. He fell. Not to his death, but to a place far below—a quiet valley carved between the hills, where people lived in a small village and tended to their sheep and chickens. A farmer found him, broken and still, and took him in. But the man didn’t know what Arion was. To him, the bird looked odd—too big for a hawk, too proud for a crow. Still, he nursed the eagle back to health and placed him with his chickens. And so, the eagle grew up among them. --- Years passed. Arion learned to scratch the dirt like the chickens. He learned to fear the fox and hide in coops when danger came. He ate grain and lived in a cage at night. He looked up at the sky sometimes, his chest stirring, something deep inside whispering—fly. But he never did. Because the chickens never flew. And he thought he was one of them. He forgot. Forgot the feeling of cold air brushing against feathers. Forgot the thrill of wind beneath wings. Forgot what he truly was. Until one day, the sky brought a reminder. --- A shadow passed over the field. The chickens scattered. Farmers looked up in awe. Above, circling in wide, majestic loops, was a wild eagle—bigger than any bird the villagers had seen. Its wings sliced the air like blades of light. It called out—a piercing cry that echoed through mountains and memories. Arion froze. Something deep inside him woke up. The call—it wasn’t just sound. It was recognition. Something stirred in his blood, in his bones, in the places untouched by years of forgetting. The eagle called again. Arion looked up at it. Then down at his talons. Then at the chickens beside him, who were already running for shelter. And then… he climbed to the top of the wooden fence, wings trembling. He opened them wide. They were larger than he remembered. The wind rustled his feathers. He hesitated—what if he fell again? What if he wasn’t strong enough? Then he heard the eagle cry a third time. And with a single breath, he jumped. --- At first, it was chaos. His wings flapped too hard. He wobbled, dipped, twisted— Then something clicked. The air caught under his wings. His body shifted. His heart caught rhythm. He rose. Higher. Faster. With each flap, the world grew smaller below, and his memory grew sharper within. He soared toward the other eagle. And when they met in mid-air, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They simply flew—together, across the mountain tops, where the wind belonged to no one and the sky held no ceilings. --- Back in the village, the farmers whispered about what they saw. Some said it was magic. Others called it a miracle. But one old woman simply smiled and said: > “He just remembered who he was.” --- From that day on, the chickens often looked to the sky. And the children pointed, shouting, “There! The King of the Sky returns!” But Arion didn’t come back to scratch the ground. He came back only to remind others— That you are more than your cage. More than what people mistake you for. More than your fear. You are what you were born to be. Even if the world tries to make you forget it. --- 🌟 Moral of the Story: > You don’t become less just because others fail to see your greatness. The world may put you in a cage, call you something smaller, train you to stay low— But you are meant to rise. The sky never forgot you. So… remember who you are.
By Moto Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
What Would I Do If I Meet My Own Self?. AI-Generated.
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to meet yourself face-to-face? Not just looking at your reflection in a mirror, but actually standing in front of a living, breathing version of you — someone who talks like you, laughs like you, and carries all your memories and scars.
By Emad Iqbalabout a year ago in Fiction
Greek Mythology
1. THE COSMIC ORIGINS OF TARTAROS 1.1. The First Powers from Chaos According to Hesiod's Theogonia, one of the main sources of ancient Greek mythology , everything started with Chaos at the beginning of the universe. Chaos refers to an infinite and formless void in which order, form, and meaning do not yet exist. This "first" being or state is the starting point of the basic building blocks of the universe. Among the first beings to come after Chaos are Gaia (Earth), Tartaros (Depth), Eros (Love), Nyx (Night), and Erebus (Darkness). These beings are not gods or goddesses in the classical sense, but are direct cosmic forces. That is, they are the first energy fields that determine the functioning of the universe.
By Remzi Kazdalabout a year ago in Fiction
"When the First Cut Hits the Ego"
Cat Stevens once sang, “The first cut is the deepest.” That lyric has always resonated with me—but not in the way most people think. Each year, when tree planting season begins and I dig that very first hole with my shovel, I catch myself humming that line: “The first cut is the deepest, baby, I know…” And it’s true—at least for my body. That first cut into the earth always feels the hardest. My muscles, unused for months, protest. But after a few hundred trees, the rhythm returns. The movement becomes automatic. Step, step, cut, plant. Step, step, cut, plant. Step, step, cut, plant. There’s a sort of music in it—the metallic beat of shovels against soil, especially when you're surrounded by other planters, each with their own cadence. It's like a symphony made of dirt and dreams. But last year, I discovered a new truth about that lyric. This time, the first cut didn’t hurt my body. It cut straight through my ego. I had spent four years proving myself as a planter. My dream? To get selected for the Iceland season—an elite, high-stakes job with a short window and a big reward. I worked relentlessly, getting better every year. And finally, I made it. I landed in Keflavik filled with pride, ready to plant hard and earn big. Getting there was one thing. Living up to it was another. The first three weeks were a waste. Our trees hadn’t arrived, so we were stuck doing meaningless "greenwashing" tasks—replanting dead trees from the previous season, then fertilizing them even though they were clearly lifeless. It felt like kissing the dead, like pouring energy into a void. But finally, in the fourth week, we started planting for real. This was supposed to be free planting—no strict lines, no perfect spacing. Just plant as you go, making sure the area was dense enough. The terrain looked simple: a flat, barren, lunar landscape. Birch plugs barely the size of my hand. Easy, I thought. Except, it wasn’t. The ground was soft on top but riddled with rocks beneath. My shovel struck a stone with the first dig, sending a jolt through my arm and down to my lower back. Ouch. That first cut didn’t hurt my muscles—it bruised my confidence. Despite the physical pain, I pushed through. I planted over 1,200 trees in just a few hours—more than I used to plant in an entire day in France. But numbers don’t make a good planter. I was lost. Literally. I crossed into someone else’s parcel without realizing it. I couldn’t find the tree cache. I lost my backpack. I probably double-planted rows. The dry grass camouflaged the trees. Everything looked the same: rocks, rocks, and more rocks. I felt like I was on the Moon—with no sense of direction, no sign of my team, not even my boyfriend nearby. Even the GPS failed. Back in France, I had confidence. I had precision. In Iceland, I felt like an amateur—fumbling, disoriented, defeated. By day’s end, there wasn’t a single part of me that felt competent. Not a cell in my body whispered professional. I had worked so hard to reach this point, and yet, I felt like I was starting from scratch. And maybe that was the point. That first cut in Iceland showed me that no matter how far you’ve come, some situations will humble you completely. I had to unlearn nearly everything and rebuild from the ground up—literally. I had to learn to: Navigate an alien landscape Keep track of where I planted Use my energy more efficiently Trust my instincts in unfamiliar terrain Yes, it was painful. Yes, my ego took a hit. But growth never happens without discomfort. Those tiny birch trees—fragile, unassuming—taught me something profound. They don’t resist where they land. They take root. And each year, they shed what they no longer need. So I did the same. I let go of what didn’t serve me anymore—old habits, outdated mindsets, my inflated expectations of how this "dream job" would feel. And by the end of the season, I hit a new personal best: 4,321 trees in one day. But the number didn’t matter. What mattered was what I learned. Sometimes, the first cut is the deepest—not because it hurts the most, but because it reveals the most. Sometimes you need to become a beginner again to remember why you started. And that’s okay. Even the tallest tree began as a seed.
By Ubaid Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Pomegranate Kisses
The first time Ezmael de Ayo tried to kiss her, Ysa Bernal knocked his tooth out. He’d done it to make her mad, and it worked. Every ounce of her fourteen year old fury flowed into her balled fist and showed the boy who fancied himself king of the streets that she’d had enough of his behaviour. Oh, she’d certainly gotten in trouble with her parents, but she got no more trouble from Ezmael. The only thing he dared do after was bare a grin at her that showed off the gap in his teeth where his canine should have been.
By M. A. Mehan about a year ago in Fiction
Title: The Fake Dating Pact
Chapter 1: The Lie with Lavender Smoke "Just pretend for six months. That’s all I need." Lena dropped her spoon into her lavender chai latte as Jake’s words echoed between the clinking mugs and laughter at Café Solstice. Something about the way the steam curled up like question marks made her heart thud with unease—or was it anticipation?
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Teacups Still Turned Toward Her Seat”
In the quiet corner of the garden, under a canopy of wisteria and fading afternoon sun, the table remained untouched. Three porcelain teacups.
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Penguin Who Opened a Juice Bar
You wouldn’t expect to see a penguin waddling on a sandy beach, let alone one running a juice bar with a pineapple hat on her head — but that’s exactly what happened when Poppy the Penguin left the South Pole in search of sunshine and smoothies. Born and raised on an iceberg, Poppy was no ordinary penguin. While her friends spent their days diving for fish and sliding on snowbanks, she daydreamed of palm trees, sunshine, and sipping fruit juice out of coconuts. “Why does everything have to be cold?” she’d sigh as she bundled up in a second scarf — even though she already had feathers for warmth. One chilly afternoon, while digging through a washed-up pile of sailor trash, Poppy found a weathered travel magazine with a picture of a tropical island: golden sands, turquoise waves, and best of all — a smoothie stand selling mango-pineapple juice. That was all she needed. Off to the Tropics With a few flaps of determination, Poppy built a tiny raft out of driftwood and fish crates. After 11 days at sea, one gull attack, and three storms, she arrived at Coconut Cove — a vibrant island full of parrots, monkeys, and sunbathing lizards. The islanders were shocked. “A penguin? Here?” squawked a parrot. “Isn’t she… melting?” But Poppy had a plan. She quickly set up shop under a palm tree using bamboo sticks, seaweed rope, and an old blender she found on the beach. With the help of a friendly iguana named Izzy, Poppy opened "Poppy’s Polar Juices" — the island’s first penguin-owned juice bar. Juice with a Chill What made Poppy’s juice bar special? She didn’t just serve juice — she served ice-cold, frosty blends straight from her own chilly feathers. Thanks to her natural body temperature and arctic know-how, her smoothies stayed colder longer than any other on the island. Her best-sellers? The Penguin Punch: mango, coconut milk, and blueberry ice. Arctic Sunrise: guava, passionfruit, and frozen banana. Chilly Choco-Cherry: a rich, frozen dessert drink that had everyone lining up. Word spread fast. Soon, parrots were flying in from other islands just for a sip of her Penguin Punch. Even the grumpy island turtles, who hadn’t moved more than five feet in years, shuffled over for a taste. Not Everyone Loved It But not everyone was happy. Rico the Rooster, who ran the hot coffee stand nearby, started losing customers. “Coffee’s too warm for this weather anyway!” joked a monkey while slurping a Chilly Choco-Cherry. Rico grew jealous. One night, he tried to sabotage Poppy’s stand by dumping warm water in her blender. But when he tripped and fell into a bucket of pineapple peels, Poppy found him the next morning — sticky, flustered, and ashamed. Instead of getting mad, Poppy offered him a free smoothie and said, “Maybe you need to chill too.” They became friends. In fact, Rico started selling hot juice buns that paired perfectly with her smoothies — and business boomed for both of them. Island Star A few months later, Poppy’s stand was voted the #1 Refreshment Spot on Coconut Cove. She appeared on the island’s news leaflets, did a guest spot on the “Tropic Talk” parrot radio show, and even got her own line of reusable coconut cups. But Poppy didn’t care about fame. She just wanted to make people happy with her icy creations and warm heart. When asked if she missed the cold, she simply said, “I brought the chill with me.” The Moral of the Coconut? Poppy’s story isn’t just about fruit and frost — it’s about courage. She left everything she knew behind, followed a wild dream, and built something new in a place where she didn’t quite fit in at first. Sometimes, being different is your biggest strength. So next time you're sipping something sweet and cold, raise a glass to Poppy the Penguin — the bird who turned the tropics into her own kind of paradise.
By Mr.Sinanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Art of Creating Fiction That Feels Real
Have you ever read a novel so vivid it felt as if you could step right into its world? Or met a character in a short story who seemed more alive than some people you know in real life? That’s the power of fiction that feels real. Many aspiring writers think great fiction is only about having a wild imagination. But the secret isn’t about dreaming up the most far-fetched plots. It’s about grounding those ideas in details that make your reader believe every word—even if your story is set on another planet or in a time that never existed. Here’s how to craft fiction that captivates from the first sentence and leaves a lasting impact long after the last page is turned. --- 1. Start With a Strong “What If?” All unforgettable fiction begins with a question that sparks curiosity. Think about the novels you love. They probably have a premise that makes you lean in. Examples: What if a young wizard didn’t know he was magical until he turned eleven? What if memories could be bought and sold like commodities? What if a tiny town harbored an ancient secret that could destroy the world? A great “what if” doesn’t have to be complicated. It just needs to create a sense of wonder or tension. Before you start writing, jot down several possibilities. Ask yourself which idea you can’t stop thinking about. That’s usually the one worth exploring. --- 2. Build a World With Rules Even if you’re writing about an imaginary place, your world needs rules. Readers are willing to suspend disbelief—but only if the story follows a logic they can grasp. Ask yourself: What is daily life like here? What do people eat, wear, and fear? What customs or taboos shape their choices? Consistency is everything. If magic exists, decide who can wield it, how it works, and what it costs. If your story is set in the future, consider how technology has changed relationships, politics, or the environment. Remember: Details make the impossible feel probable. --- 3. Create Characters With Conflicting Desires One of the biggest mistakes new fiction writers make is creating characters who feel flat. They might have a goal—but no internal conflicts. But in real life, people are full of contradictions: You can love someone and resent them at the same time. You can crave adventure but fear failure. You can dream of success yet sabotage yourself out of insecurity. Give your characters at least two conflicting desires. This tension drives the story forward and makes readers root for them. Ask: What does this character want more than anything? What are they afraid will happen if they fail? What secret are they hiding? --- 4. Show, Don’t Tell This classic advice never gets old because it works. Instead of telling your reader “John was angry,” show it: John’s jaw tightened. He slammed the car door so hard the window rattled. The more sensory details you use—sights, sounds, textures—the more immersive your story becomes. When readers can picture every scene, they stop feeling like spectators and start experiencing the world through your characters’ eyes. --- 5. Let Your Characters Fail Perfect characters are boring. Readers connect with vulnerability and imperfection. Don’t protect your characters from mistakes. Let them fail, embarrass themselves, and make bad decisions. Failure not only builds empathy but also sets up moments of growth and redemption. This is where your story’s emotional power comes from. --- 6. End With Resonance A good ending doesn’t have to be a happy one—but it should feel earned. Ask yourself: Has the character changed in a meaningful way? Have their choices led to a believable outcome? What question or feeling do I want to leave in the reader’s mind? An unresolved thread can be powerful if it invites reflection rather than frustration. --- Final Thoughts Fiction is a bridge between imagination and truth. When you write stories that feel real, you give readers the gift of seeing themselves—and the world—differently. Remember: You don’t need to be a literary genius to create something beautiful. You just need to be curious, observant, and willing to put your heart on the page. So the next time an idea tugs at your imagination, don’t dismiss it as silly or impossible. Write it down. Give it shape. Let it breathe. Because somewhere out there, a reader is waiting for a story that only you can tell. And when you write fiction that feels alive, you’ll discover that you, too, become more alive in the process.
By Kim Jonabout a year ago in Fiction
🦉 The Secret Library of the Wise Owl
In the quiet heart of Whispering Pine Forest, hidden beyond mossy stones and waterfalls that hum lullabies, there exists a secret known only to those who truly listen to the woods. Not many have found it. Fewer still have been allowed inside. But deep within an ancient, hollowed-out tree stands the forest's best-kept secret: the Library of the Wise Owl.
By Shoaib Afridiabout a year ago in Fiction
My Guardian Angel went on Vacation
Author’s Note I wrote this for my Facebook Group on a Random Sunday — Come join the fun. Black Spyder Publishing on Facebook!
By Dblkroseabout a year ago in Fiction
Something Darker; Chapter 20
"Mother?" The questioning voice asks. I spin towards it. A young Micah stands in the doorway to my room, staring in confusion. He had at least seen her wipe my memory.
By Katarzyna Crevanabout a year ago in Fiction